Okay, here’s my 1971 Formula. I bought it with my first real writing job, back in 1992. The owner was this weedy little oversuntanned guy who chain-smoked Marlboros, so of course it has a couple of cigarette melts on the console. The car was originally a Castilian Bronze / Sandalwood interior, but the guy had put a hodgepodge of bright-white velour interior bits from what I think was a disco-era Camaro on it. Years of his smoking made the inside of the car a rolling gas chamber. The guy lived in this area north of Los Angeles called Canyon Country that gets incredibly hot in July, which was when he sold me the car. As (no) luck would have it, one of the few things that didn’t work were the power windows, he had fried the switch somehow. Oh, and the AC “just needed Freon,” I’m sure you’ve all heard that one. So I had to drive it 35 miles to my house in rush-hour traffic on the hottest day of the year without being able to lower the windows. I would pull off the freeway about every 10 minutes, open the doors, and breathe a little. At one point a cop on a motorcycle stopped and asked if I was having a stroke.
Fortunately, I already had a torched-out 1971 Esprit with a fairly intact black interior and a surprisingly nice dash. The only other real issue was this electronic fuel pump the guy had installed by chopping a hole in the trunk floor. Even after the car was shut off, that pump would keep running – and it clattered as loud as an air compressor.
All the motor parts are original. What can I say, I love driving it, especially on a twisting mountain road with no one else on it. All my kid’s friends ask for rides in it. The other day I’m sitting in traffic on this busy street in West Los Angeles called Pico Blvd. and I hear a guy yell “HEY, WANNA SELL IT?” He pulls a U-turn with everybody honking, gets in the lane next to me, and offers to trade the Mustang GT he’s driving for my car, right there on the spot. Thanks for the laugh, pal.
